Static Electricity
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: Kissing Jean is kinda like throwing yourself off the side of a cliff or playing with wild wolves—you're not supposed to do it, you know it's somehow wrong, you know you're only going to get hurt doing it, but you still want to, for some reason— She isn't sure why she likes it so much. (Jean x Sasha)


**A.N.****: This was also a request. I don't really ship these two, but, you know... Why not?**

**Warning****: Mature content.**

**Disclaimer****: I do now own ****_Shingeki no Kyojin_. Nor the poem that inspired this; _Static Electricity, _by Neil Hilborn.**

When he laces his fingers through hers, she is reminded of the time she almost fell off the side of a cliff when she was a little girl—that terrifying realization that she would never see another day or eat another plate of her mother's homemade sweet potato pie—and has to fight the urge to tear herself away from him. And when he leans over the short space between them, lips parted and eyes half-shut, she feels the rush of fear she gets when her fingers can't find the grips fast enough to save her from a massive hungry mouth, and she has to steel all of her muscles so that she won't push him away. And when his lips press to hers, she cannot stop herself from recalling the way a blade can snap off as easily as a twig between her fingers against the thick flesh of a titan; she has to lock her bones in place before she does something she knows she'll regret.

One time, she was sneaking around near the mess hall late at night looking for food to eat. Her hand hardly touched a link of the chain wrapped around the door handles when a guard shouted and a warning shot was fired—into her shoulder. The pain was so intense and the bullet had only skimmed her skin after tearing through her sleeve, she buckled to the ground and clutched at the wound and bit down on her fist to muffle her cries. It felt like fire, electric, shooting through her nerves and jolting across her body, snapping at her senses and—

Kissing Jean is kinda like that.

A shock through her every nerve ending, a fire blazing underneath her skin.

Goosebumps scatter across her body, her hair stands on end, her heart attempts to jump right out of her ribcage and land right in his hands. Her fingertips tingle, her spine liquifies, her stomach swarms violently in flutters of—_not butterflies, more like hornets, angry and demanding and loud and undeniable—_and her breaths sort of just _stop_.

His lips are soft, like a flower petal or water moving its fingers through her hair.

When she tells him this, he lifts an eyebrow at her. The edge of his lips comes up a little and he chuckles once, softly.

It sounds like honey rolling over stone to her.

When she tells him this, his calloused fingers lace through hers once more, and she is reminded of the time she fell asleep beneath at the edge of the woods and woke up with a wolf sniffing her hair—that horrifying revelation that she would never laugh at her father's cheesy jokes or eat another piece of bread again—and she has to tighten her grip over his hard knuckles until he's brushing his lips across her forehead, whispering, "You remind me of fireworks, you know."

A giggle bubbles out of her suddenly, it's so ironic she can't help herself.

When his lips close over hers, she understands what he means. His tongue flicks over her lower lip and she sucks air in through her teeth as he traces every edge he can and burns her own mouth with his breath alone and she is abruptly reminded of cannons and bullets tearing over her shoulder and a blade slicing over thick flesh and the sun blazing in a black sky—_fireworks_, yes, and electricity and fire and everything scary—

Kissing Jean is kinda like throwing yourself off the side of a cliff or playing with wild wolves—you're not supposed to do it, you know it's somehow wrong, you know you're only going to get hurt doing it, but you still want to, for some reason—

Kissing Jean is a lot like gliding fingers through water or falling asleep under ginormous pine trees.

It feels like being shot or shocked or bit by feral creatures.

And she isn't sure why she likes doing it so much.

~~...~~X~~...~~

When he meets her gaze from across the training grounds, she quirks a smile and raises her eyebrows and tries to pull her face into expressions that make him snort derisively. When she crosses her eyes and purses her lips, he has to turn away before he loses it. He only gets a few seconds to compose himself before he looks over his shoulder and finds her at his side, rising up on her toes and sliding her chin onto his shoulder from behind. She's somehow managed to make one eye point in a different direction from the other and he has to cough around his laugh—"Stubborn," she says, almost accusingly, as if the fact that he refuses to laugh at her silliness is a crime against all of humanity.

He's halfway to calling her out on it before she leans her weight completely onto him.

Her eyes are wide—_swallowing _up his entire world—and he can see the blunt tips of her teeth chewing on her lower lip. This must be why they always taste like copper and salt to him.

Sasha is like summer, all hot-bright grins and vivid colors and blistering edges and loud echoes of mirth against tall trees and green grass. She is like a sparrow, shooting across the sky too quick for him to catch; sharp wings spread wide and feathers unfurled and eyes all-seeing and too-observant. She is like a literal fire blazing in her own space, more dangerous than anyone ever actually cares to admit. She is a small firecracker in his hands, sizzling at the ends, sparking up against his skin—

When she presses a kiss to the side of his throat, he has to stop himself from moaning.

She seems to feel the vibrations begin from beneath his skin and rocks back on her heels, arms folded behind her and lips curled up at the ends.

She _knows _how she makes him feel. She has to, making a face like that—as if he's easier to read than an open book—and he can't help but wonder if she's simply teasing him. She smiles in that way that only _Sasha _can and he feels his face begin to soften in response.

"You two!" Keith shouts from the other side of the grounds, shoving them out of their moment. "Get back to sparring! You can have your little honeymoon after you train!"

His face flushes and he sees her rubbing her hand over her reddened cheek, lips formed in a small frown. She raises her fists and moves into a stance, locking her sweetly features into one of mock determination. When he doesn't immediately mimic her actions, she rushes forward, swinging her fist. She never makes contact, not entirely. He flinches away and she twists her body at the last second, sliding her foot between his own and throwing her side against him—her shoulder connects with his chest and her hip with his leg, and then her thigh slides between his and her hair whips across the tip of his nose and he's suddenly _very _aware of how soft she is and—she knocks him off balance. Her elbow jabs up under his ribs and her knee somehow bangs into the back of his, sending a shock through his muscles and making them utterly unresponsive to his command.

He falls on his back and he has no time to get up before her boot is on his chest and she's standing over him. "You didn't even try," she says, and begins to strike poses while flexing her arms in the manliest way she can manage, setting her jaw and pulling her brows together in what she deems to be her _tough guy_ look—she told him this once, he remembers because he had to physically stop himself from laughing in her face, she was so serious and he couldn't bring himself to hurt her feelings just quite.

He chuckles breathlessly, "You didn't even warn me."

She stands at attention, moves her fists to her hips and raises her chin in one abrupt motion. "There are no warnings in war," she states in a gravely tone, but there's this gleam in her eye that gives her away. "You gotta be prepared for everything and anything in the battlefield."

He grips her thigh with a hand and pushes her up and to the side, forcing her to try to catch her footing on just one leg—her arms flailing, eyes widening, a tiny squeak leaving her—he lifts his lower half off the ground, lets her support his weight the rest of the way, traps her other leg between his knees and drives her down to the ground in a single beat. She turns on her back before she lands completely, but it pulls him closer anyway. Before she can move away, he pulls her into a lock, hooking one arm around her shoulders and one over her head and holding her against his chest. His legs tangle up with hers just as she attempts to raise them up to kick him, and he rolls them until he's on top, trapping her between his body and the ground.

"What was that about being 'prepared for everything and anything?'" he asks her softly somewhere near her ear.

She laughs very lightly, but it comes off more nervous than amused. "Well played, Jean. Well played." She laughs again, but this time, this time he realizes how her body shakes each time she does and how her hips cradle his a little too well and how her breaths smell vaguely of those honeyed buns the older trainees were hiding for themselves and how her hair fans out behind her head and how her breasts _feel _crushed against his chest—

"So, if you two are done humping on my grounds," Keith murmurs, deceptively calm, from above them. The man's eyes are so intensely focused on them that it felt like a thousand knives were pointed at their throats, and he has this ominous air enveloping him that they both can feel weighing down on them. "That would be great."

Sasha, in much the same manner as a barking dog, blurts out, "We weren't doing anything! Jean was just showing me a, uh...headlock!" This isn't very much a lie, he still has her head caged in his arms and his body is still tensed defensively; nothing at all romantic in that. But Keith only narrows his already narrowed eyes down at them. "I think he did pretty well, don't you?" She laughs, and the nervous noise from before is much more prominent now, but for a whole different reason.

Keith only waits, and Jean knows what he's waiting for, so he sighs and releases Sasha, untangling himself from her and pushing himself up to a kneel. He takes her by the elbow and stands, pulling her up with him and taking a step back from her when she straightens her posture.

They watch him pivot on his heel and stomp away to another pair—a very muscular boy being half-choked by a short blonde while another boy, Eren, attempts to placate her with words alone; he ends up being the next victim of her quick temper for a few short seconds before Keith shouts at them and she backs off.

"Good job," Sasha says. "You win this round."

When he glances at her, she smiles in that way that only _Sasha _can—all white teeth and warm eyes—and he feels his heart skip a beat or two.

~~...~~X~~...~~

In the middle of the night, he wakes up to her slender body wiggling up next to him under the blankets. Her arm flings over his side and her nose nudges the nape of his neck, legs curving up behind his. He lets himself bask in the warmth beating across his spine from the breaths fluttering his hair, tickling his skin wetly. He hears her yawn into the back of his shirt, her toes slide between his calves slowly. "What are you doing?" he mumbles sleepily; doesn't even bother to rub the drowsiness from his eyes.

She shifts, perhaps surprised, and then explains, "I was cold," in a bashful tone that both does and doesn't suit her.

"Liar," he says immediately, "it's hot as hell in here." And yet he can't muster the energy to push her away when she only snuggles up closer.

He feels her cheek, warmer than it probably should be, press into his shoulder, her hand gliding up his side to trace the skin over his heart in criss-cross patterns (he idly wonders if she can feel how hard its pounding under her fingertips). "Yeah," she admits in a grumble. "Yeah, it is." And yet she doesn't make a single move to leave his side.

He's more than a little grateful for that, but asks out of genuine curiosity, "Why _are _you here?" In all the time they've been together—a little over six months, if he's been counting right; he's been getting into the habit of losing track of time when he's around her and he can't quite explain why—she's never done something like this. Once or twice she's randomly taken his hand or pecked his cheek, but nothing so daring as literally _getting into bed with him_, and this, to Jean, seems a little suspicious.

He turns his head to look at her over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes the longer she doesn't answer. He can see, in the pitch black of the room, her eyes are wide and her lips are pressed in a small line, thin brows raised innocently.

"Are you gonna answer my question or are you gonna keep staring at me like a small child seeing his mom get eaten by a titan?" he asks haughtily.

"That's not funny!" she hisses under her breath, shooting a glance behind her to where they both know Eren's bunk is. The room is eerily quiet for a few seconds before Reiner's snores, Armin's sleep-talk, and Connie's obnoxiously loud breathing continue, unhindered. "...That's not even how I was staring at you, it was more like a bunny-rabbit being caught in the light of a lantern late at night."

"Bunnies don't usually get caught out at night," he murmurs.

"That's exactly why they'd look like that."

"Then why are you _really _here?" he asks, turning back to the wall.

She presses her nose into his shoulder blade gently. She mumbles something too soft for him to hear, muffled mostly by his own skin.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak _Sasha._"

"I spoke _English_," she whines.

"Right. _Sasha_ is spoken with a mouth full of mashed potatoes, I forgot. Forgive my uncultured ignorance."

He feels her smile a little around the line of his spine.

"You're gonna have to answer my question at some point."

He knows she's making that same face. "I just... I want to..." Her fingernails scratch lightly across his ribcage. He wonders why every touch shocks his every nerve. "I want to kiss you, Jean."

And then her lips, just a little chapped and oddly hot, press into the nape of his neck very softly. He loses his train of thought for a few long seconds and forgets how to breathe correctly for a little while more. He grasps for rationality as soon as he remembers how his lungs work and how to suck in air—a little louder than he probably should—and turns his head again to look at her, eyes wide this time around.

Even in the darkness, he can tell how red her face has become. Her eyes shine somehow and her lower lip is trembling very slightly.

He clears his throat and attempts for his usual taunting tone. "So _this _is what you woke me up in the middle of the night for?" They both hear how flustered he really is, and her lips quirk into a small smile.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, and her voice shakes just as hard.

He curls his hand around hers on his chest, shifting himself onto his back, sliding an arm under her head to pull her up to level face. "No," he says, pushing her hair out of her forehead. "Not really." He cradles her face in his hand and tilts her chin up carefully. Her lashes flutter over her eyes and her lips part—when their mouths connect, he swears something electric shoots down the entirety of his spine; it's weird he knows this, he's never been shocked before, why does she make him feel like this, he doesn't understand—

His fingers tangle into her hair, and he slants his mouth over hers, sliding his tongue across the nibbled parts of her rose-colored lips, notes the taste of sweetened corn and green tea, swallows a sigh when she opens her mouth to him. The inside of her mouth is burning, tongue slick under his—timid, uncertain, but so eager and _hot—_and she digs her nails into his scalp trying to pull him closer. Her leg slides between his, smooth skin like liquid silk, rich cream and clear water slipping between his fingers; she pushes up close to him, _quick_, and he knows she's felt him, already hard—for all her softness, the sweetness of her mouth, her tongue wet around his his, her fingers zapping down to the nape of his neck, full breasts _soft _against his chest—because she gasps into the kiss and her nails bite into his shoulders, suddenly, another shock. The noise melts into something much like a moan when he grinds himself down against her.

"Please be quiet," Bertholdt's voice whispers nervously from the bunk above them.

"Oh _God_," Sasha squeaks, jolting up and out of Jean's arms and shoving herself out of his bed. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Bert, I—"

"It's okay," he mumbles timidly, and Jean can hear him pull the blankets over his head. This theory is proven when the next thing Bertholdt says is muffled. "I wasn't awake for all of it, you were just...making a lot of noise..."

"I'll say," Reiner mutters from the other side of the room.

"I'm leaving," Sasha announces.

"Bye," Eren replies tiredly.

"Goodnight, Sasha," Armin says kindly.

Jean hears the door open and then shut, and waits another few beats before asking, "How long were you guys awake?"

Connie giggles.

Jean flops back over to scowl at the wall. "Go the fuck to sleep."

He can somehow sense some of them grinning in response.

~~...~~X~~...~~

"Well, that was embarrassing," she says as she slides into the open seat beside him at breakfast the next morning. She stuffs some fluffy scrambled eggs into her mouth when she catches Connie wiggling his eyebrows at them from way across the mess hall.

He glares at Connie until he looks away. "It could've been worse."

She swallows, hard, and glances at him quickly. "_How_?"

"We...could've been...you know..." He gestures something in the air, but it doesn't clarify what he's trying to say in the least. "...doing other stuff," he sighs, giving up and dropping his hands.

She blinks slowly, and then realizes what he means. Her face flushes a deep red and she waves her hands almost violently. "N—_No!_"

"I said we _could've _been," he snaps, sliding the rest of his eggs closer to her. "I'm not implying that we _should_."

She pokes her fork into the yellow clumps on the plate almost anxiously. She glances up at him through her lashes shyly, face still faintly pink and brows furrowed. "Why _shouldn't_ we?"

His heart jumps into his throat. "W—What?"

An older trainee clangs the bell signaling that breakfast is over and she shoots up to her feet, nearly flipping over the plates on the table. She hops over the seat and half-sprints to the door. "Oh, well—I guess it's time to train—I'll see you later, Jean—gotta go warm myself up, y'know—early bird catches the worm and all—bye!" She slips out between two other trainees and he can see her stumbling over her own feet trying to run away.

He watches her until she disappears into the girls' bunks, turning back to collect their plates. He pauses when he notices she hadn't even finished her own food. That is worrisome; Sasha _always _finishes her food.

"Hm, looks like you fucked it up," Reiner murmurs thoughtfully as he's passing by.

"Leave him alone," Annie sighs, walking behind him. "It's not his fault you guys got in his way last night."

"We couldn't help it," Bertholdt mumbles, fidgeting with his sleeves. "They woke me up..."

"You should try seducing her," Reiner continues to say, ignoring them.

"I'm not so sure I want advice from you," Jean says, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

"It's not like you're doing better _without _it," Connie interjects, appearing at Reiner's side. He smirks when Jean glowers at him. "Or maybe you are."

"How about..." Annie murmurs, and they all go quiet; she glances between all of them strangely. "How about you find some place private where you both can't be interrupted? She seems about as willing as you are, but it's not a moment to be shared with an...audience." This time, she looks up at the other boys, and they avoid her gaze guiltily—Bertholdt turns red, Reiner scoffs, and Connie rubs the back of his neck. "There are some abandoned cabins near the woods. You could use those."

"That...sounds like a good idea," Jean murmurs slowly.

"Of course it does," she sighs. "Women aren't _that _hard to read."

Reiner snorts. She punches him in the gut before walking away; he wheezes and coughs.

Jean decides he doesn't entirely dislike Annie anymore. As much.

~~...~~X~~..~~

"Where are we going?" she whispers from behind him, her fingers tightening between his. The night hangs still and cool around them, and there's something peaceful about the way everyone's sleeping seems to envelope the entirety of the grounds. He can hear some people snoring, some mumbling; their even breaths fill up the air until there's no space for anything else. He assumes this calm extends to even the guards dozing listlessly in their chairs near the gates.

"It's a surprise," he murmurs, and then pulls her along as he hurries across the yard to another section of cabins. Another few yards and they'll be along the forest line, where, true to Annie's words earlier that day, there are some abandoned cabins left for the taking. "Come on. Just a little more."

The grass flicks wet beneath their boots, and he slows to a trot and then to a brisk walk as they approach the cabins. The steps creak as they climb them and the door sticks when he tries to push it open, and once they're inside it's dark enough he can't see his own hands. She keeps close to him until he cracks open the window shutters to let some moonlight in, and wrings her hands when he shuts the front door firmly. It makes the room feel stuffy and she finds it hard to breathe, most especially when he pauses to glance at her over his shoulder, gaze unreadable in the dull lighting. She clears her throat uncertainly. "What are we doing here?" she asks, and her voice hitches in the middle. She clears her throat again.

He turns to face her, reaching a hand up to scratch behind his head, eyes moving over the room slowly, perhaps to avoid her worried look. "Well... I was thinking about what you said earlier," he murmurs, and she watches his other hand clench at his side. "And I figured we needed privacy for it."

She blinks, bemused, and then claps her hands over her mouth to stifle her loud gasp in surprise. "You mean—what I said—the thing at breakfast? I didn't mean it like that—oh, well, I did, but I didn't mean—I—I don't know what I meant but I don't think it was _this_... Well, maybe it is, but I didn't think—so soon...?" She meets his gaze timidly, eyes wide and more than a little afraid. "Don't you think this is sudden?"

He rubs his jaw, laughing breathlessly; disbelief, maybe. "I won't force you to do anything you don't want to. We can just as easily sit here and talk than...all right _have sex—_"

Her hands move to cover her cheeks, but he sees the pink anyway. "_Don't _say it like _that_."

He crosses his arms, and knows that the irritated tone he uses only half-masks the trembling in his voice. "Well, how the hell do you want me to say it? _Making love_? _Fucking_?"

A thin brow twitches up and she looks away, curling her hands into loose fists. "I'm worried you won't like my body," she mutters.

"Bullshit," he says immediately, and notes the upward quirk in her lips in response. "You walk around with barely any clothes on when we're exercising and don't give a rat's ass about who's looking."

She raises her hands, palms turned up. "Those are my workout clothes, that's different."

"Stop changing the subject," he snaps, stomping forward. She backs up at once, but he follows her until she's trapped up against the wall. He leans over just enough that their eyes are level; hers shine like polished wood now.

"Which is...?" she mumbles, and swallows hard when he places his hands on either side of her head.

"Do you or do you not want to have sex with me?"

"That's not fair!" she squeaks, and holds her hands against his chest when he begins to close the space between them. "You can't ask those sorts of questions, out of the blue like that!"

"Sasha," he says seriously, redirecting his hands to her face, holding her still. "Answer the question. Yes or no?"

His thumbs stroke her cheeks very faintly, and it sends shocks down her spine, down to the pit of her stomach, down to her toes and right back up to the crown of her head. The minute his eyes trace over her lips—his pupils expanding _just _a little—it snaps down to her core, jolting her. She jumps forward, and his hands hold fast, keeping her still. His eyes move back to hers, confused. "Ah—I..." she breathes, lip quivering. He drifts forward to flick his tongue over the seam of her lips, all hot and wet and—_God damn it, Jean, why do you do this to me?_ She grits her teeth and sighs before he can pull away, "Yes."

"Yes?" he asks. Not in that mocking way he usually does, but in honest curiosity, genuine surprise. He searches her face for some form of a pun waiting to slap him in the face, but he finds nothing of the sort. Just this pretty shade of pink blooming up behind her sweetly tanned flesh, this hazy look in her hazel brown eyes—an expression she seems to reserve only for the most delicious foods.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

She shuts her mouth, furrowing her brow. "Are you going to ruin this moment? Serious? Jean." She levels a look at him and he has to bite the corner of his lip to keep from laughing again. "Yes."

"Okay, then."

A silent moment passes, and he just stares at her.

"...Are you... Are you gonna do anything?" she asks, giggling nervously.

"Maybe I'm savoring the moment." No, that's a lie. He just isn't sure where to begin. This minute, right now, Sasha is wearing too much—funny, he'd always thought she never wore enough; really, shorts and a tank top can only hide so much—but he isn't sure where to _begin_. He wants to touch, he wants to kiss, he wants to pull and slide her clothes off and wants to tear and rip them away at the very same time; this impulse scares him a little bit. He doesn't want to tell her he doesn't know how to do this, right when she agreed to it all.

She somehow seems to understand. "Let's move to the bed...?" She motions to the bunk nearest them, just a few feet away.

"Oh. Yeah, sure." He pinches the sheets between his fingers gingerly; they seem clean, and the mattress only sighs when he applies pressure. She plops down gracelessly when he pulls his hand away, and pats the area beside her when he stares at her quietly. He sits, and then clasps his hands between his knees thoughtfully. Should he just right out kiss her? Or should he ask first and then go from there?

"You said we can just sit here and talk," she says softly, folding her hands in her lap and straightening her back. "We can just talk, I don't mind."

"I don't want to talk," he sighs, and then slides an arm behind her, pulling her closer. He brushes his lips across her cheek, hears her breath catch midway toward her mouth, and then slides his tongue between her parted lips to taste her. "Apples. We didn't have apples, why do you taste like apples? Where the hell did you even get apples? They're not even in season."

"Shut up," she whispers, closing the space again. His mouth moves against hers smoothly, like water over her skin, and electricity accompanies his every breath, every break between each kiss, every inch he pulls her closer. His hand moves into her hair, and she feels him pick the ribbon loose, his fingers comb the tangles out. He tilts his head to the side, sliding his tongue across the roof of her mouth. The hand in her hair cups the back of her head to keep her in place, while his other hand moving up under her shirt to stroke her back. Her own fingers curl into the sleeves of his shirt, something at her core trembling with every second that passes he's still only mildly touching her.

He figures this is a good place to start. He leans her back until she's lying down, her legs raising up over his lap and her hands clasping at her chest. She's out of breath again, cheeks pink and eyes glassy. He wonders how she'd look if he moved his hands to _other _places—the enticing curves of her breasts underneath her thin shirt, the flat expanse of her stomach peeking out from the hem, that spot there between her tightly shut thighs, the soft skin of her legs—idly brushing his thumb across her cheek for a stolen moment. And he shifts, pulling himself further onto the bed and bracing himself over her. Her legs move to accommodate him, pressing close to his side, and she lets her arms fall away to her sides. He cups her face, leans down to whisper a kiss over her lips again, and then trails off toward the line of her jaw, the hot skin of her throat. She squeaks when he drags his tongue over her pulse point, and tugs on his collar when he opens his mouth over the spot to suck very softly.

He moves down to her collarbone when he's sure he's left a mark, and kisses his way down the top of her shirt, where only the barest hint of cleavage shows. He brings his hand up to play with the hem, pulling back to meet her gaze. He pulls the shirt up, up her faintly muscled stomach, up the fine traces of her ribcage, up the small bandages covering her breasts, up until its crumples and folded under her arms; never looking away, even as she tries to. And then his fingers slip under the bandages, one by one, and he carefully pulls up until they stretch, just enough to push them away from all the important bits. Her breasts are as perky as she is, and her nipples, a deep shade of pink, harden in the cool night air, goosebumps littering across her skin; she doesn't try to hide herself. "That's a good look for you," he comments with a small grin.

Her face flares red and she claps her hand over her eyes. "Shut up."

With a soft chuckle, he moves both hands over her, sliding up her sides and around to cup her breasts gently, almost timidly. She peeks from between her fingers, pressing her lips together tight. She jumps, just a little, when he squeezes carefully. She gasps, a little loudly, when he rolls his thumbs over her nipples experimentally. Licking his lips, he bends down to wrap them around the left one, kneading the other slowly. He feels her thighs shift beside him, her back arch up slightly, and then she mewls, softly, and her fingers tangle into his hair to pull him closer. He presses a row of kisses around the swell of her breast, and then shifts his attention to the other one to give it the same treatment. Her skin shines when he pulls back to check his progress.

He goes on to kiss down her stomach, curling his fingers under the waistband of her shorts—letting them linger a moment to feel the warmth of her skin curve under his scarred knuckles—and then pulls them down her hips, and, after she slides her legs down from his side, he yanks them off completely. He draws back immediately, halting all progress.

"You don't wear underwear," he says, almost factual.

"Not to bed," she mutters breathlessly, looking away. Almost conspiratorially, she adds with a tiny smile, "It makes things easier on you."

His hand drifts over the curve of her hip. "I guess it does..." he admits. "But that doesn't justify anything." Her legs part as he traces patterns along her thigh, watching his hand intently. It stops just at the innermost area between her folds and the crease of her leg meeting her pelvis. "What if somebody decided to take advantage of you?" His fingers hover over her, where warmth seems to simply roll off of her almost copiously. "What would you do then?"

"You would never let that happen," she says confidently. "Now touch me, I'm getting impatient."

His fingers skim over her slit only briefly—she jerks, as if she's been shocked; he wonders if she, too, feels the electricity, fizzling underneath his own skin—and he grins in response. "A little demanding, are we?"

She laughs, taking a hold of his wrist and directing it back to where she wants his attention. "You started it," she scolds, playfully. She guides his fingers lower, somewhere hotter, somewhere strangely wet.

"_You _started it," he insists, parting her folds to see _pink—_like a flower, he thinks—and slips one finger inside of her; she gasps and tightens her grip on his wrist until he's gently prying her fingers off. "Last night, showing up in my bed like that. What were you thinking?"

"I wanted a kiss," she rasps, grasping fistfuls of sheets. "I still want a kiss."

He braces his other hand on the mattress, right beside her waist, and raises himself up enough to press his lips at the corner of hers. "You're wet, you know," he murmurs, curling his finger inside of her carefully; she wriggles and whimpers softly. "It's nice to know I make you like this." She kisses back slowly, lips trembling. He slips another finger in when he feels her relax, and rubs his free hand up and down her thigh to calm her as she tenses up again. "Does it hurt?"

"No," she mumbles, and he feels her wrap her hands around his shoulders from around his back. She lets her legs fall open a little more, tilting her hips up so that he doesn't have to angle his wrist so strangely. "I like it...I think."

"You think?" He kisses her again, twisting his fingers within her heat and squeezing her hip comfortingly. "I'm pretty sure you do." He traces her lower lip with his tongue. "You're _dripping _now, Sasha."

"Damn it..." she grumbles, nails pinching into his skin. Her face is this deep shade of red he quickly decides is his favorite and her eyes seem to water a little. "You caught me." He notices, then, that her hips are rocking up, very slightly, to meet his every touch. She tugs at his collar. "Take off your shirt, I feel weird being the only one naked."

"I'm a little busy, if you don't mind," he replies easily, circling his thumb about her mound. She hisses, bucking up hard once, and then tries to tear his shirt off over his head. "No need to hurry," he mutters, freeing his head as soon as she pulls it high enough. "Let me finish first—or, _you _finish first." He pushes himself back and places a hand over her knee, parting it further from the other one. He moves down to kiss her throat, then her chest, then flicks his tongue over her nipple before sucking it into his mouth completely. She squeaks again, swallowing down her noises, and he feels her wet muscles flutter around him. He can't be sure, but he assumes this means she's close. He hurries to bring her there as quickly and smoothly as possible, and tries to recall all the ways his fellow soldiers had tipped him on.

When she does finish, it's all high moans and wild thrusting, her eyes glazing over and mouth opening wide—his name, stumbling off her tongue in a short gasp like _God—_and as she melts down in the mattress, she smiles almost lazily. "Take your shirt off," she mumbles, tired. "You look funny like that."

He kisses her, gently. "Shut up."

~~...~~X~~...~~

When he laces his fingers through hers, she is reminded of the time she almost lost her arm trying to escape an oversized hand reaching out to crush the life right out of her—that short moment realizing she isn't brave enough to handle everything she has to—and she has to fight the need to snap herself away from him and save her neck from all the things she doesn't quite understand. And when he presses himself up close to her, breath hot on her throat and fingers tracing down her spine, she cannot stop herself from recalling all the times she's ever nearly _not _made it, and has to prevent herself from doing something she knows she'll regret someday. And when he says her name, she can't help remembering how water can sometimes tear a person apart when it wants to, and she has to keep herself from running as fast as she possibly can without ever looking back.

One time, she found some daggers in her father's tool shed when searching for some paper to make darts out of, her younger brother waiting by the tree in the back yard with a target above his head. She had only thrown one when she realized the mistake she'd made. The blade had only shaven the tips of the hair at the top of his little head, but she cried and clutched him to her chest and apologized until she lost her voice from shouting. Her heart had pounded so hard and her nerves had fried themselves to nothing more than ashes as she tried to quell the adrenaline shooting through her own limbs—

Fucking Jean is kinda like that.

Heart pounding so hard her breaths can't catch up, blood pumping through her veins, _hard_.

His thrusts are slow and deep, and his hands continue some sort of pattern across her body—the goal of bringing her as much pleasure as possible driving them wherever they wish to go—and his mouth moves from her throat to her shoulder to her chest to her ear and he _bites_ very gently and whispers some half-meant apology—_didn't mean to hurt you, you're so soft, it feels good, I'm sorry if it hurts—_

It does hurt, and she doesn't try to deny it. Jean inside of her causes an ache she never knew existed; he stretches her in ways his fingers hadn't prepared her for and when he thrusts just hard enough she has to scramble to hold herself together because, _yes_, it hurts, but it never hurts enough to actually _hurt_. It's _Jean—_not tender kisses or sweet caresses—all electric touches and searing kisses and terribly, terribly perfect grins.

And he does grin, breathlessly, thoughtlessly—when she gasps or whines or moans, when he finds just the right way to touch her, just the right way to nip here or tweak this or lick that—and it makes her lose all her thoughts too suddenly to grasp.

Her toes curl and her voice shakes toward a laugh, relief bubbling its way up her spine and out her throat. He smiles into the curve of her neck and wraps his arms all around her, molding them together and rocking his hips a little quicker. She has to stifle a cry into his shoulder when he opens his hand over her tailbone, angling her in a different position, thrusts deepening.

Flares of electricity storm across her nerve-endings, and she struggles to gather all of her bearings before the end of it. She wraps her legs around his waist and tugs him down by his hair for a kiss.

Her heart crashes into her ribs and her lungs begin to cave, back arching and nails scraping and—

Fucking Jean is kinda like flinging yourself into a coursing river or off the side of a cliff or being shot in the shoulder or almost getting your arm ripped off or even tossing daggers at your own blood—it's scary and risky and you know you're not supposed to do it, because it's wrong—

Being with Jean is a lot like being alive.

And when he moans her name against her lips, and when he holds her so tight, and when he tells her she's just like _fireworks_ and _summer_ and _static_ _electricity_, she doesn't think she's ever felt more alive.

It feels a lot like war.

She isn't sure why she likes it so much.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: Yeah.**

**Well, I hope you liked it. Thanks for reading and please review!**


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